


Mandorla

by IcyKali



Series: Dayoun Timeline [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29318439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyKali/pseuds/IcyKali
Summary: A diplomatic visit to an art gallery is a trial for Weyoun.
Relationships: Damar & Weyoun (Star Trek), Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek)
Series: Dayoun Timeline [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116638
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Mandorla

**Author's Note:**

> It was wonderful to use my docenting experience to write this!

When Dukat gave Weyoun one of Ziyal's prizewinning paintings as a diplomatic present while insisting the artwork would “force” Weyoun to “finally comprehend aesthetics,” Weyoun should have known this was inevitable. He had managed to defer Dukat's demands that he visit the gallery on Cardassia Prime until the Founder herself told Weyoun the constant complaints had become trying. That was how he had ended up in the middle of an exhibit, surrounded on all sides by works of art he could barely see, let alone judge. The security guards would not allow him to lean against the gallery walls and bring his face in close, so he was left to squint at fuzzy strokes. He hovered in front of Ziyal's contribution to the exhibit, and saw the plaque beside the frame had a ribbon attached—once again, she had received some honor or another. He was relieved that Dukat was several rooms away, caught up in flirting with a guard, though he pitied Ziyal for having to listen to it. The acoustics within the museum presumably resulted in the boasting reaching even her half-Cardassian ears despite the fact she was off on a tour.

Weyoun resented preparing to deal with the leading questions Dukat was sure to pose regarding Ziyal's work, so it was a relief when he heard Damar's measured footsteps approach. It was even more of a relief to turn and see that Damar had not been allowed to bring kanar into the gallery space. The low rumble of his displeasure paired with his full-force pout eased Weyoun's tension. “Hello, Damar,” Weyoun said sweetly, casting a smug glance down at Damar's empty hands. 

Damar's frown deepened. “You've certainly been staring. What do you think of it?”

A wonderful low-stakes opportunity to rehearse what he would say to Dukat and to the artist later had arisen—Weyoun could not help but smile. “Why, I think it earned the accolades. Don't you?”

“Really. Why do you think it deserved to win? What do you _see_ that makes you say that?” It was a trite phrase both of them had overheard a docent use with child visitors. In Weyoun's many rocky forays into the realm of aesthetics, he could not count how many times he had heard it used. Art was supposedly subjective, but that phrase was a cliché throughout multiple quadrants.

“If you were to bother to examine the paper, you'll see our dear Ziyal's painting is far more textural than the others in this room.” He gestured to a series of crinkles that ran under the strokes of ink. “Why, it's like a miniature landscape. A dark river cutting through pale mountains. A level of complexity unmatched by the other artists whose works hang here today.”

Damar huffed. “You'll have to do better than that. The crinkled texture is a mistake—Ziyal probably rested her hand on the paper while she was working and rubbed against it.” 

“You think it's nothing more than a mistake? What an insult to poor Ziyal, attributing her innovation to chance alone.”

“Read the judges' opinion—or listen to it, if you can't see the text. You'll learn they never even mentioned it.”

Weyoun sighed and turned to face the far wall. There was no point in arguing. Even aside from the fact that one of the debates he usually had with Damar would likely cause Cardassians to talk here on Cardassia Prime, he would not contest his claim. It was surely right—Weyoun had been waiting to study the judges' decision in case he had been able to devise an acceptable analysis on his own. “What distinguishes this work from all the others? They're all abstract ink paintings on pale paper with broad, curving strokes, some looping inward or flattening out to form the shape of a petal or leaf or some other vegetal form…” he mused, in a tone hushed enough that only Damar could hear. It would not do to offend any other citizens with his inability to understand.

“I thought you couldn't interpret art. Bold of you to assume they're depicting plant life.”

Weyoun kept staring at the blurry mass of light and dark. “I've taught myself to make educated guesses regarding what art is depicting, when it's representative. After all, I've been a diplomat for many times longer than you've been alive. I can even decide to like or dislike something, but only for arbitrary reasons. But I'm not able to determine how good or bad a work is.” 

“I don't think art is about good or bad.” Damar cut in front of Weyoun to stand in front of a painting featuring a mass of circular forms in the center of the picture plane. “This one is my favorite.”

“If art isn't about good or bad, Damar, that would be quite a blow to competitions such as this.” Weyoun tilted his head to the side as he drew closer, trying to gauge the art from a different perspective. “What do _you_ see that makes you say that?”

“I like the way each fruit is rendered with a single stroke.”

“Yes, but why? Why is the technique... good?”

Damar turned back to face him. “I don't know. I just do.” He sounded haughty, and Weyoun hated it and hated the pulse of envy inside him. Damar continued, “You're not the only one who can like something for arbitrary reasons.”

“Well!” Weyoun brought his hands together. “I'm sorry to say this, but it doesn't sound like you'd be particularly suited to the diplomatic corps.”

“Maybe not suited to snobs, whose opinions you've obviously heard too much of, Weyoun,” Damar said. “Have you been listening to the other visitors' conversations?”

“Of course, I can hear far more than you—”

“I didn't ask if you've been _hearing_ them, I asked if you've been _listening_.” Damar gestured to guests milling about in the adjacent exhibit. They were Cardassian adolescents, Ziyal's age. Weyoun focused on their conversation, even hovering closer. It would be inappropriate to engage Damar in a debate, and so he needed something else to occupy his time.

One of the guests gestured to a massive work that took up the entire display wall. “What do you think it means?”

“I don't know, but I like the colors!” said another.

“Well, I don't,” said a third. “The shade of grey just looks dirty. And gold on grey is a cliché at this point.”

“Maybe it's been done because it works. Besides, it's obviously supposed to be that way. The gold must represent a rebirth from strife!” 

“No, it doesn't. Besides, anyone could have painted this, and using their feet! The only reason it's in this museum now is because it's big!”

The first guest pulled back a bit, clearly alienated to be in the midst of a budding courtship between their two friends. Weyoun took the opportunity to go over and get a better look at the painting. Even with his weak eyes, he recognized the composition. In the center were golden aureolae within aureolae, and above was a glimmering expanse. Weyoun looked down at the Cardassian. “I believe I know what the artist had in mind.”

The Cardassian's eyes went wide and flickered to Weyoun's hair—the fact that all Vorta normally wore their hair up was often unsettling to Cardassians. However, this one was clearly too intimidated to say anything about “degeneracy.” “Uh—really? What do you think...?”

“Well, isn't this how your people often express the sense of _orientation_?” As in, the orientation by planetary bodies, the primary purpose of the spoon-shaped depressions. “I would guess the work explores the theme of centering.”

“I-I think you're right.” The Cardassian looked up at Weyoun's forehead in confusion. “Wait, do you... do Vorta have _orientation_?”

“No, no, I simply studied the many ways your people convey senses aside from sight in artwork some time ago, and I knew…” Weyoun trailed off. Was he flushing? He felt a fervor, as if he had just scaled a precipice, or turned a room that was initially against him to the Dominion's side.

“Huh, to think I didn't even know myself... are you an art historian?”

Weyoun opened his mouth, the line about how the Vorta have no sense of aesthetics waiting to be used yet again. “Yes, I suppose so,” Weyoun said instead. His eyes widened in horror but he quickly blinked the expression away—a young person might not understand the Founders' complex reasoning behind their engineering, so it was simply more expedient to lie. That is what he would explain to Damar when he rejoined him and Damar's giddy laughter—which Weyoun could pick out from the next room, or really, from anywhere—calmed down. 


End file.
